I felt fear.
A line of perspiration appeared over my brow, and my insides turned to ice. The people dancing seemed to slow to almost a stop, and I…
I thought I would never feel fear. Nothing daunted me. At age 4, I could get up at night and tiptoe my way through the darkness to the toilet and aim my little soldier without casualties to the surrounding toilet. At 7, I could fly a 7-foot fence on cue if the crazy neighbor caught us in their compound. At 13, I was on the senior football team for my…
The evening breeze was light and majestic, softly stroking Emeka’s chubby cheeks and hairless head. He shifted ever so slightly in his seat, looking for that angle — and never quite getting it — that would send him into dreamland. He hit a sweet spot, and ahhh, in a few minutes, everything was blurry. His hands loosened their grip on the chair handles, body melting into the seat. Reality became fuzzy, and his eyes rolled upward beneath its eyelids. Sleep had come.
“Tell me, have you ever been chased by shadows?” a voice made him jump. He looked sideways to…
her eyes, an angel’s. her legs, the pride of the eyes: long and demanding attention. the way she walked, like she was eternally stepping on glass shards: she hardly touched the floor. at least that’s what it seemed to me.
if i am to admit i am a man stricken by love, afflicted with emotions, what does that make me? flesh and blood, like the rest of you. a mortal, affected by the fickle complexities that bewail you, simpletons.
but oh, her words; the crescendos, the diminuendos, music to me. the way she spoke on every subject, the expert. i…
The door creaked open, and Nnamdi walked in.
Dr. Nnamdi. Right. My boyfriend turned therapist was insisting on the title.
‘Close your eyes.’
I adjusted on the wooden bed set at the side of the empty room- where we would regularly sneak in to eat the forbidden fruit in my mother’s absence- and closed my eyes.
The sound of Nnamdi sitting down on the only other piece of furniture — a half-eaten sofa and rustling paper, filtered into my ears. Today’s session had started.
‘Tell me about the last time you were happy.’
‘The last time I was-’
I had a eureka moment yesterday. It did not happen after a night of strip clubs, booze, weed, and drugs, or end with drool dripping on my couch, to which I barely made it home. I didn’t wake and scream, “Eureka!” with a girl straddling me.
No. It happened when I was in church, with me staring at the pastor intently, his words flying past my ears. I was staring into the open space where he was standing. I could not see or hear anything. If anybody had touched me, I might have been wheeled to the ICU. …
Here’s how to make it yours.
By all standards, 2020 was not a pretty year.
2020 was terrible, and that’s putting it mildly. People lost their jobs, died, and were locked up at home for months. A never-ending loop of updated numbers and extended lock-downs. There was a lot of bad news. In one year, we lost legends like Kobe Bryant, Chadwick Boseman, and others I may not remember. Tragic.
There were the Black Lives Matter protests, the EndSars protests, and lives were lost. The ASUU strike lasted from February till December, effectively ruining many students’ interest in school. …
you are waiting for everything to fall in place while you’re the missing piece in the puzzle board.
you are the magic waiting to happen. you are the silver lining in the dark cloud you wish never appeared.
It’s you. And until you realize that the magic is you, the power you possess will lie dormant and unharnessed.
you, you are your destiny. The Universe recognizes that. Remove redundant energy from your life, associate with more edifying things, read books, discover yourself, learn more, expand your knowledge, do what YOU LOVE!
And you will discover that you were the greatest thing to happen to you.
There is no winter in Lagos.
There is no fall, or summer, or any of that senseless crap we borrowed from the Americans. There are three seasons in Lagos — blistering heat, unending rain, and a half-hearted harmattan. And on the bench that Victor sat on, it was raining.
His low hair hardly protected his face- or anywhere for that matter- from the light pour. It streaked down his face and into his half-soaked shirt. He tasted salt and spat into the puddle forming just beside his leg. He missed it.
He was annoyed. Anyone would be, in this city…
wine and die.
I spotted you in the rose garden when I was walking home. You are the white one in the sea of red roses. You stand out, not unlike the best-dressed lady at the gala. The curves on your stem are telling: they ascend in circles that plead to form the perfect shapely rose you are. The thorns are your imperfections sticking out of you in an orderly manner. They tell me that they are you, and you are them, and they threaten to make me bleed. I cannot overlook your thorns. I can only accept them.
The metal whip dragged noisily across the tiled floor, hitting once or twice the boots of the man who carried it. His leather boots were of the finest material, and so were the pants above them. His shirt was the only odd thing on his body: it was more of a piece of rag compared to what adorned the lower part of his form.
The footsteps and the creaking came to a stop at the shivering figure of the boy on the make-shift cross.
It was barely a whisper,” I. I. don’t know the whole thing.”
allow the mind to see what the eyes cannot, and create what the hands cannot.